


Worship

by tarysande



Series: Rose Trevelyan [6]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-28 19:24:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2744252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarysande/pseuds/tarysande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Like a penitent before an altar, his every kiss is a prayer, his every whisper a plea for intercession, for divine reprieve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worship

_Your Worship_ , they call her. They are heavy words. Hers is a heavy burden. And yet she never turns away, never falters. She smiles for them, and he knows she means it. She offers her hand, and never balks when they reach out and take it, pulling with all their might. He knows she questions, sometimes, cannot help questioning, but if ever he himself doubted, he looks on this strength of hers, this determination, and cannot help but see the Maker’s hand in it.

The woman behind the Worship comes to him with her heart open like the the flower she’s named for, unfurling each secret and hope and fear like petals only he may touch. They are soft, he knows, and tender. He has never been more aware of his own strength, the bruising capability of his fingers or a harsh word, and yet she is unguarded. It undoes him. Makes him want to be worthy of the trust so freely offered. Brings out every protective instinct that drove him to a life with the templars in the first place, only untwisted, untainted by lyrium and demons and a madwoman jumping at shadows.

She does not require him to stand as her personal blade. She is capable, can take care of herself. When they are alone, he puts an arm around her because he can, holding her small hand in his much bigger one, stroking the pad of his thumb against the pulse at her wrist until she leans against him, sighing in contentment. In moments like these, they do not speak of Andraste, or the Rift, or Corypheus. They are not Inquisitor and Commander. They are not even mage and templar. She is just Rose, and he just Cullen. She rests her head on his chest and traces patterns against his skin, telling stories of her childhood, of favorite foods and colors and books and friends. Simple things. Precious things.

The sharing of her vulnerabilities opens him in turn, like keys turning locks to rooms he’d thought long shut up and airless. She is gentle with what she finds there, blowing away dust and removing sheets from long-unused furniture, closing rifts and healing wounds with the power of whispered words and sweet kisses and her listening ear. He is startled by some of the stories he speaks, by the return of memories he’d misplaced, by the sudden startling realization that this is something like happiness.

Like a penitent before an altar, his every kiss is a prayer, his every whisper a plea for intercession, for divine reprieve. The very idea of a future beyond the next day, the next battle, has so long seemed something meant for others, and yet he cannot help praying for it now he’s had a taste. He is surprised when this does not smack of blasphemy. Every laugh he teases from her lips is an answer. Every time she casually touches his shoulder or his forearm or the curve of his spine is a gift.

 _Your Worship_ , he thinks, and keeps on praying.

And yet sometimes he remembers the visions the demons sent, and worries this taste of happiness is more of the same. That instead of running fingers through soft curls, he is still scraping his nails into bloody nubs against the floors of Kinloch Hold; that instead of the gasps and moans and breathy sounds of pleasure she makes as he moves within her, he is hearing the cries of his dead brothers and sisters in arms and the demons who slew them; that the woman he holds is no more real than the phantoms those demons taunted him with.

She knows these nightmares now. When they come upon him, she takes his face between her palms, her eyes unflinchingly locked on his even when he wants to look away, wants to keep her from seeing the ghosts that haunt him. She doesn’t say, “It’s okay.” She doesn’t say, “Don’t worry.” She doesn’t say, “You’ll be fine.” She says, “I’m here.” She says, “I love you.” Sometimes, after the worst ones, she says, “In a moment you’ll remember this is real. I’ll be with you until you do.”

He comes back to her, shuddering and exhausted as a man who’s been on a forced march on reduced rations for weeks, and she says nothing at all, but her arms are warm and so very strong around him.

 _Your Worship_ , he thinks, pressing his cheek to her breast and breathing in the scent of her, listening to the reassuring thud of her heartbeat beneath his ear.

When hers is the bad day—the weight too heavy, the betrayal too sharp, the loss too dear—his are the arms that hold, his the warmth on offer, his the gift given. If she needs words, he speaks, but he can offer silence, too. He suspects this is dearer. So many people ask things of her—words, time, aid. Decisions. When they stand across from each other in the War Room, he is one of these constant petitioners. But in her room, or his, the sanctuary is sacred. They play chess, maneuvering pieces with practiced ease and devilish calculation, or she plays the lute while he sings. They read together, or drink heady wine, or sleep.

Sometimes, she undresses him slowly, like a diner savoring a favorite morsel, with a kind of exquisite patience she rarely exhibits elsewhere. Sometimes, they do not remove their clothes at all, not entirely, burying themselves in each other against the wall or across his desk with the fervent desperation of lovers too oft parted. Sometimes, they taste and test and learn, each encouraging the other to new heights, and end up bonelessly sprawled together, limbs entwined amongst the tangled sheets.

 _My love_ , he thinks, and she turns toward him with a sleepy smile, already easing her slender body into the comforting curve of his body behind her. She pulls his arm across her, their joined hands resting over her heart. Simple. Precious.

“See you in the morning,” she murmurs, in the voice of one already half-dreaming.

“Yes,” he says, and prays and prays and prays for tomorrows.


End file.
